


Been This Way (Since The End of October)

by fictorium



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Christmas, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:00:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5082187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy's in the townhouse, late at night. Now where exactly has Miranda wandered off to? A spot of festive smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Been This Way (Since The End of October)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the Aimee Mann song 'I Was Thinking I Could Clean Up for Christmas'.  
> Prompt: DWP, Miranda/Andy, black and gold.

 

Andy uses her key and lets herself into the townhouse, and despite her best hopes (and crossing her fingers, and holding her breath) the lonely quiet descends on her immediately like early morning mist. If not for the soft white light spilling down the staircase, she could easily believe that no one is home.

 

She kicks off her black and gold Louboutins (with a teensy bit of regret because they make her calves look fantastic) since stealth is of the essence here. If Andy is to find where Miranda is lurking, it’s important that Miranda not discover her first. Placing The Book on the end table out of habit, Andy is relieved that there’s no dry-cleaning tonight, and so she only has her oversized burgundy clutch to carry.

 

Her first point of call is the little den just before the kitchen. Andy flicks a wall light on, illuminating the tasteful black and white pictures of Miranda and the twins, taken at some beach that Andy feels like she should know the name of. Maybe it’s at Miranda’s place in the Hamptons, somewhere Andy’s never been. Or maybe that vacation to Bermuda that Miranda took a few months before Andy had even heard of _Runway_.

 

She collects these details like a private investigator, filling countless notebooks with intimate but pointless observations about the way Miranda chooses to live her life. Whether it’s the exact kind of apple that Miranda will tolerate in a fruit salad, or the name of the chef who cooked for Miranda one night three years ago in Miami, Andy logs it all. It’s like writing a biography that no one will ever read, and while it’s nothing like Andy’s calling as a writer, she dutifully records the facts and compiles the profile step by careful step.

 

Andy leans backwards over the bannister before risking the stairs--both to search for further signs of life and to check that she hasn’t been discovered yet. Satisfied, she begins to creep up stair by stair--the twins taught her the creaking ones that she hadn’t already discovered herself. It takes a little bit of zig-zagging, but a quick scan of the second-floor rooms shows no signs of life, and she’s kind of disappointed to discover the same is true on the third. That’s home to the bedrooms, and it’s far too early to expect someone practically nocturnal like Miranda to have turned in. Andy checks the bedroom anyway, smiling softly to herself at the little touches of domesticity that prove Miranda is human after all--from the silky nightgown dropped casually on top of the sheets to the novel left turned down on the nightstand, one of Miranda’s countless pairs of reading glasses balanced on top.

 

Of course, both of the girls’ rooms are in darkness since they’re not here tonight, or for the next few days. It’s the sight of their neatly-made beds and floors free from expensive toys and clothes that spurs Andy on up to the fourth floor. Here, at last, she finds the woman she’s been looking for.

 

The fourth floor is, to Andy’s mind, the nicest part of the whole (very expensive) house. One side is closed off into rooms (guest rooms, Andy thinks, and at least one bathroom) but most of the floor is given over to an open-plan space that houses a grand piano and a few low bookcases around the walls. It’s still decorated in Miranda’s signature style - lots of cream with occasional splashes of bold color, which on this level happens to be a deep red that is picked out in throw pillows and the paintings hung at tasteful intervals. This is the kind of space that gets a home pictured in Homes & Gardens, but Andy knows that Miranda would never allow the intrusion.

 

Andy’s stealth campaign has been successful--Miranda, curled up on the window seat, shows no signs of having noticed her assistant’s presence. It’s a rare peaceful moment in a series of painfully long days, and Andy decides to enjoy it while she can. She drinks in the sight of her boss, silver hair catching the lamplight that bounces around the spacious room, dressed as casually as Andy has ever seen her (apart from that robe, in Paris. Was that really more than a year ago?) The sweater is loose-fitting, but even from the opposite side of this normally unused sitting room, Andy can trace Miranda’s subtle curves with her eyes.

 

“Miranda?” Andy asks carefully, when she beings to feel like she’s intruding. “Are you okay?”

 

Andy’s allowed to ask Miranda things these days; that supposedly unbreakable rule changed two months ago when--in a fit of something like frustration--Andy asked Miranda quite plainly “can I kiss you?”

 

Miranda’s head snaps up as though she’s just been interrupted during a sacred task like finalizing the cover layout or firing someone incompetent.

 

“What?” She says, somewhere between a whisper and a hiss.

 

“I asked,” Andy says, stepping closer, “are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine,” Miranda sighs, and it sounds completely world-weary.

 

“Only...it would be okay if you weren’t okay,” Andy presses. “It’s totally normal to miss the girls at times like this.”

 

“Normal?” Miranda huffs, turning her gaze back towards the night sky. “I’m so glad I have your approval, Andrea.”

 

“Hey,” Andy soothes. “You know what I mean. Caroline and Cassidy didn’t choose their father over you, it’s just that he offered them the chance to go skiing. The custody agreement says--”

 

“I am well aware of the specifics of the custody arrangement. It was made round about the time _you_ were choosing your freshman classes.”

 

“Ouch. A dig at my age. You really are in pain,” Andy teases, gently. “Come on.”

 

“I miss my children. I’ve managed to have them every Christmas so far, did you know that?” Miranda mutters, leaning her forehead against the glass. “I work so many hours, and I miss so much. Missing Christmas with them, when I have the time off... it feels wrong somehow.”

 

“I know,” Andy agrees, reaching for Miranda’s hand. “That’s why I spent an extra hour at the office making sure there would be no emergency to disturb you for the next few days. That’s why I’m here now, in fact, and not at LaGuardia--not that you asked what I was doing for Christmas, by the way.”

 

“You told Emily that you were going to Cleveland to see your family,” Miranda states quite calmly, although the edge in Andy’s voice has at least prompted Miranda to turn around again.

 

“Well, first of all what I say to Emily is not necessarily what I would say to you, if you asked. Second of all, I’m from Cincinnati, so unless I wanted to go nearly five hours out of my way...”

 

“It’s all Ohio to me,” Miranda deadpans, but she scoots back on the window seat to make room for Andy, who doesn’t hesitate to join her. “So, pray tell, why are you here?”

 

“Well duh,” Andy says, rolling her eyes. “I’m here to give you a Merry Christmas.”

 

Miranda tips her head back, and just when Andy thinks she’s going to groan in annoyance, instead Miranda lets out a short, sharp laugh.

 

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Miranda chides.

 

“With good reason,” Andy reminds her. Has it really been three days since they’ve been able to sneak a moment alone together? Now they have the prospect of at least two uninterrupted days, and Andy is giddy at the thought.

 

“Prove it,” Miranda challenges, and there’s fire in her eyes now instead of the dull sadness when Andy first discovered her.

 

So Andy, as a total sucker for an impossible challenge, is powerless to resist. She leans across the plush velvet cushions of the window seat and plants a firm kiss on Miranda’s waiting mouth. Miranda yields instantly, parting her lips and reaching out to pull Andy closer.

 

Miranda is feeling greedy tonight, Andy can already tell. It’s evident in the hunger of how she kisses Andy back, insistent with her tongue and tugging at Andy’s bottom lip whenever they part slightly to breathe. Miranda’s hands, too, are intent on getting as much action as possible. One minute a hand is stroking the back of Andy’s neck, then it’s unleashing her hair from the elegant French twist she finally perfected this morning. Miranda’s other hand is already slipping under the black cashmere of Andy’s sweater, charting a course north that she will not be diverted from. And what the hell does Andy care? This is what she’s been waiting for all week.

 

“See?” Andy murmurs as she seeks out that spot beneath Miranda’s ear that makes her shiver. “You’re in the Christmas spirit already.”

 

“Is there any point in reminding you that I’m Jewish?” Miranda sighs, but Andy can feel the smirk even without looking.

 

“I was planning more of a secular celebration,” Andy amends with a nip at Miranda’s earlobe. It’s a lot easier when Miranda has already removed her ‘signature’ hoop earrings (until next year’s ‘signature’, and the one after that anyway), and Andy is determined to take her time. “More capitalism and decadence.”

 

“I’m not paying you, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Miranda pouts as her fingers tug deftly at Andy’s nipple.

 

“Honey,” Andy says, risking life and limb by even _thinking_ of using a term of endearment, but hell, she’ll only live once. “You couldn’t afford me.”

 

Miranda snorts, and that’s every bit as good as a laugh.

 

“Shall we take this downstairs?” Miranda recovers. “I have a perfectly comfortable bed.”

 

“I like it here,” Andy retorts, slipping from the seat and dropping to her knees in front of Miranda. “And the way you’re acting tonight, I don’t think you could stand the wait.”

 

 

“Mmm,” Miranda agrees, and then she’s leaning back at the gentle shove from Andy, who uses the newfound leverage to tug Miranda’s pants and underwear down in one less-than-graceful move.

 

It takes another flurry of kisses as they both stand, then some gentle wrangling from Andy (Miranda, however much she may want to, is not a natural at letting anyone else take charge) to get Miranda in the position that Andy’s been fantasizing about all day.

 

Miranda is good at any number of things, but whether intentionally or not, she’s a master at making reality every bit as good as fantasy. Well, she does it for a living after all. Nonetheless Andy is still a little impressed--and very, very turned on--at the glorious sight of Miranda bent over the window seat, her bare ass offered up to Andy like the best possible Christmas gift. Andy knows better than to be ungrateful.

 

With a playful smack on Miranda’s ass cheek (her pale skin flushes a deep pink instantly, and she chokes out a whimper of approval) Andy sinks back down to her knees. Using her thumbs to tease the sensitive creases at the back of Miranda’s knees, Andy runs the very tip of her tongue along Miranda’s slit, a touch so light it’s barely there at all. It’s enough to get Miranda moving though, and she jerks closer, hoping to increase the contact.

 

“Nuh uh,” Andy warns. “I’m going to take my time, and you are going to summon some patience.”

 

“Doesn’t sound--” Miranda gasps at a single, more direct swipe of Andy’s tongue. “Very merry to me.”

 

“Oh, it will be,” Andy vows, and she’s already feeling pretty smug about how Miranda is so wet already that she’s practically dripping. “Just you stay there and let me cheer you up, okay?”

 

Andy can’t imagine ever using this tone in the office, but it feels perfectly right in the quiet privacy of Miranda’s home. The faint suggestion of stars dust the dark sky that Andy can see through the window above Miranda, but that could just be the lights of the city reflecting. Andy couldn’t care less, not when she’s listening to the little huffs of breath that Miranda expels as Andy massages her way up Miranda’s inner thighs. These toned legs, a testament to Pilates and endless days in four-inch heels, are deliciously sensitive, and if Andy can’t have them wrapped around her she will damn well take the time to lavish attention on them. She follows the path of her fingers with her mouth, placing open-mouthed kisses against the thighs that are already starting to tremble slightly.

 

“Andrea,” Miranda murmurs, drawing the last letter out in a positively indecent way. “Please.”

 

Which is enough to render Andy temporarily blind, deaf and dumb. She shakes her head, as though that will allow some sort of mental replay that will confirm something as crazy as _Miranda just said please_. Oh, Andy has had Miranda worked up before--they spent one memorable night in Andy’s apartment when a Hermès scarf made the worthy sacrifice in order to tie Miranda’s wrists to the headboard. She’d almost snapped the (metal) bar by the time Andy relented and let her come, but even then she hadn’t begged, hadn’t even asked nicely.

 

“Oh,” Andy breathes, as her senses return to normal. “Oh. Well, if you’re going to put it that way.”

 

Whether in the spirit of the holiday, or just a desperate need to give Miranda the kind of fucking she won’t soon forget, Andy sets about her task with newfound enthusiasm. Her fingers are now gently parting Miranda’s folds, allowing Andy (and her tongue) all the access she could possibly want, and she takes full advantage. With long, luxuriating strokes she tastes Miranda over and over again, enjoying the sequence of little moans that the action draws from Miranda, who’s know leaning much more heavily on her arms to keep her upright. Andy slips her tongue inside after tracing around and around Miranda’s entrance, and that makes her almost growl in approval.

 

As she plunges her tongue in and out in a steady rhythm, Andy lets her left thumb run through the rest of the wetness built up between Miranda’s thighs. When the finger is good and wet she begins a careful massage of the tighter little opening that Miranda has half-confessed fantasies about in late-night whispers that Andy’s never sure she’s supposed to hear. Andy very gently eases her thumb inside, moving barely a millimeter at a time to allow Miranda to adjust. The moan of approval is all Andy needs to keep going.

 

With that very slow rhythm established, Andy pulls her face away, reveling in how wet it is from Miranda’s arousal. That this is all for her never fails to blow Andy’s mind. Without hesitation, she slips two fingers (and then a third) from her other hand inside Miranda’s incredibly wet pussy and sets them thrusting in a faster counterpoint to her other thumb. By the sound of it, this is enough to turn Miranda into a babbling, cursing mess who wants nothing more than to thrust herself against Andy’s invading fingers, and Miranda’s so close to coming that Andy can practically see the energy of it surging under Miranda’s skin.

 

When she does come (once, and _oh, oh, ohhhh_ twice when Andy is unrelenting) Miranda all but collapses with Andy’s fingers still inside her. Andy pulls herself free, and knowing by now to let Miranda recover herself for a moment or two, she busies herself from thinking about the ache between her own legs by pulling a wipe from her purse and cleaning off her fingers.

 

When Miranda manages to turn around she looks flushed, content and just slightly ridiculous in her half-naked state with a cushion crease on her cheek. Andy can’t remember finding her more beautiful.

 

“Feeling happier?” Andy risks it, hoping that even Miranda won’t contradict the evidence of her own lazy smile.

 

“Much,” Miranda confesses, her eyes still darkened from arousal and her once-perfect hair thoroughly mussed.

 

“If you’re too tired, I can go,” Andy offers, in what’s become part of the routine since all this started. Pretend it isn’t mutual, pretend there’s no kind of relationship here--one of them gets to come and the perpetrator offers to leave, for no reason other than they started doing that the first night (when Andy fucked Miranda against the foyer door) and so they continue to. Tonight though, it brings panic flickering across Miranda’s very satisfied face.

 

“No!” She gasps, without ever raising her voice. “Stay. You said... well, I thought you meant you would stay. It’ll be Christmas in--”

 

“Thirty-two minutes,” Andy confirms, with a look at the Hermès Cape Cod wristwatch that appeared in her desk drawer the other day, still boxed and with the tag torn off. Andy has no doubt that it was intended for Miranda, but she’s happy to benefit from the regifting.

 

“I’ll stay, then,” she confirms, which is another unusual step, because they don’t talk about this part--about what it means to stay, to lie beside each other through restless dreams or deep sleep, to do more than fuck and run.

 

“Good,” Miranda says, extending her hand regally for Andy to help her up. They fall naturally into an embrace, and Miranda kisses her way along Andy’s throat and exposed collarbone before resting her head there. “I haven’t even had the chance to undress you, yet.”

 

“We have time,” Andy says, although the pulsing in her clit would probably disagree with that. “And we can totally go downstairs now, if you want.”

 

“I do,” Miranda says with a slightly exasperated sigh. “And when we do, I fully intend on having my wicked way with you, Andrea. An experience like that does not go unrewarded.”

 

“Yay,” Andy offers weakly, both a little scared and a lot turned on by the determination in Miranda’s eyes as she leads Andy by the hand towards the stairs.

 

“Besides,” Miranda adds as they descend, “I made a few little purchases for us that I think you’re going to enjoy.”

 

Andy shivers in anticipation; it’s going to be a really, really Merry Christmas after all.


End file.
